


Sleepwalk

by dougstamper



Category: Saving Private Ryan (1998)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, upham needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8383315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dougstamper/pseuds/dougstamper
Summary: Mellish survives, he and Upham live together after the war. Upham is having a hard time letting go of their fallen friends.





	

**Author's Note:**

> AU where Mellish ended up killing the german soldier, not the other way around. I imagine he and Upham to share an apartment together after the war, Mellish helping Upham along with his PTSD.

There were days he felt as if a presence was missing--of a few individuals, that was. Those individuals crossed his life for what could seem to any onlooker an insignificant amount of time. It was fleeting, as if he was lucky enough to only be graced with their personalities, their stories, their being, for a portion of his life that was altogether unfair. Though if Tim learned anything from his writings, it was that where the time you got with someone was lacking, it could be made up in substance. So in no way was the journey to Ramelle insignificant, in no way was it meaningless. Those memories were like wings upon his shoulders, he could easily forget they were there after a while. Though on those particular days when they came to his attention, he would embrace it the best he could, hoping to subside the horrors of their days together. 

 

The missing of his former friends was without a doubt, the hardest to tackle. His fingers would freeze over the keys of his typewriter, stopped in mid-sentence, mid-thought. He could practically hear the way Caparzo asked him, “ _ Upham, how do you say “it’s okay’ in French?”-- _ and how he regretted not answering something so little. Though even if he did, the bullet came too quickly, his answer would have never mattered. 

 

He thinks of his niece. The girl whom Tim had never met, though Caparzo said Jacqueline had reminded him so much of. Would that girl grow up to remember her uncle? She would never hear the stories from their venture, the good days, the jokes they shared. Just as Caparzo would never see her grow old, marry, have little ones of her own. A story cut short, just as his waited to be continued in front of him.

 

He could remember the look in Wade’s eye as he came to the realization he was on no pleasant deathbed, but one nonetheless. That he would be leaving the battlefield, but not exactly on his journey home. The hatred for himself in his gut when he thought of his pathetic words, the plea for help to a dying man, “ _ Tell us--tell us what to do, tell us how to fix you.”  _

 

Thirty milligrams of morphine never turned out to be enough, there was no fixing a medic’s bullet holes. 

 

The hatred grows when he remembers how he simply let the man go, the man responsible for a folded flag in the hands of Wade’s mother. A woman who he too had never met, though would surely weep for outliving her own son. Tim could only pray someone copied Wade’s letter to her, so she would not have the image of his blood engraved in her mind on sleepless nights. 

 

There was the rubble as the ground seemed to shake beneath his feet, sending his eyes to the opposite--the sky, where Jackson had been assigned lookout. What they thought was a perfect hideout for the sniper turned out to be a sore thumb amongst fallen buildings and debris. The explosion burned so brightly, he swore his vision flashed for a moment as he watched. And there was no body that followed, no trace that his friend’s footsteps ever graced this earth. Perhaps he could take solitude in a painless death, but no death is a good one. 

 

He could almost fondly remember the way Jackson spoke of his family back home, his father who was a preacher--the way his eyes lit up when he proclaimed he’d become one too. After the war, though. That’s where the fondness fades, because Jackson was never lucky enough to see the end of the battle he fought. He would never return to his loved ones in Tennessee, and another parent outlives their child by far too many years. Years Tim had pained himself with counting, over and over when there was nothing else to do.

 

Tim could never neglect to think back on Sarge and Miller. It was almost fitting they went out together, so it appeared in the aftermath--though he only bore witness to the latter’s demise. It stung, it twisted at his very core when he connected the dots to where the bullet had come from. The question if two deaths could be blamed on himself burdened Tim constantly. Though this one was for certain. Had he listened to his fellow soldiers, specifically the  _ griping  _ coming from Reiben, he’d have never convinced them to let a German go. How stupid could he be?

 

Very, it appeared, as he could place himself back on the footsteps of a crumbling apartment. Ammo clinking around his neck, his gun poorly situated in his shaking hands. If only he could have stood up, if only he could have found it in himself to respond to Stanley’s calls for help--how could he be so pathetic? To sit by, shedding tears for a situation that could be prevented, while the screams and cries coming from the other side of the fragile wall turned into white noise. Someone he loved and venerated, for all he could know and assume, was soon to die from his own lack of action. 

 

The silence that followed was the loudest noise of all, only rivaled by the footsteps not long after. They pounded in his ears like his heart in his chest, Tim didn’t know who he expected to emerge from the doorway. He never did, when he relieved it--be it in daydreams or night terrors, the outcome changed from time to time. He could barely ground himself, go back to reality and know the truth--

 

“ _ Upham!” Stanley shouted. He called for him at least five times. _

 

_ His tone had changed. It was laced with fear and nervousness, “U-Upham?” _

 

“Tim.” 

 

And there were arms around his waist, bringing him close to something that was  _ real,  _ someone without a doubt alive. He’d learned to recognize it by now, after the initial flinch from physical contact. It was  _ Stanley,  _ not Mellish--he was  _ Tim,  _ not Upham. They weren’t anywhere near battlegrounds or gunfire, they were in their home. Tim was in his arms, he was safe. 

 

So why didn’t he feel that way?

 

“You gotta stop thinking about it,” Stanley said in the calmest tone he could manage, brushing hair from his face and wiping away tears Tim didn’t realize he had shed. “You can’t work yourself up like this all the time.”

 

“I-I know,” Tim managed, trying to shove Stanley off. That’s what he usually did, though it never seemed to work. To his benefit, that is. Stanley knew what was good for him in moments like these. “Sorry. . .I’m really sorry, you shouldn’t have to-”

 

“Shh, shh. Don’t beat yourself up over it, it’s nothing you can help.” He interrupted. Stanley continued idly running his fingers through the other man’s hair, he knew he should be focusing on bringing him back to reality the best he could. This seemed to be a recurring fear as of late--he’d find Tim sitting, staring forward past his typewriter, without a doubt reliving certain events he was adding to his book. His hands would be shaking, crying silently or not. He never realized when he got that way, Stanley noticed. Tim couldn’t pull himself from the nightmare once it began.

 

This time, his breathing wasn’t settling, his shaking wasn’t dying down. Stanley slowly helped him out of his seat, and led him off to the bedroom. Tim half-clung to him as if he were the only solid thing in the room, afraid of what would happen if he let go. He kept his eyes either shut or to the ground, the latter seeming the less painful of the two. Stanley knew what it was like to see things that haunted you when you so much as let your eyes fall shut, he just hated that Tim had seemed to have gotten the tougher deal of the two. 

 

They reached the bedroom, Stanley gesturing for Tim to lay down, then following soon after. He had his arms around Tim yet again, though this time the pair were situated much more comfortably. He pulled the covers up just a bit, then placed a gentle kiss on top of Tim’s somewhat-messy hair. “How are you feeling? Better, worse?”

 

There was a pause, Tim always hated complaining. 

 

“Better, I think,” He said, then shifted so that he was laying in a way he could hear Stanley’s much steadier heartbeat. It calmed him, somehow. “But my head. . .it hurts.” 

 

Stanley could only imagine. He went to rubbing small circles on each side of Tim’s aching head, and Tim was finally able to close his eyes without nearly immediately reopening them out of fear. His shaking was almost completely gone after a short time, his crying had stopped. As far as Stanley was concerned, that was a victory. He would do anything to take his love’s pain away, so he was happy if he could help, even if it was just a small bit. 

 

Slowly, Tim’s grip on the fabric of Stanley’s shirt started to loosen. His chest rose and fell steadily, until the more alert of the two quietly called for him. 

 

“. . .Tim?”

There was no response. A smile spread across Stanley’s face as he shut his eyes as well, sleep was always the best thing when you felt bad--be it physical, mental, or both. This was a bonus to his success, he could hardly ever get Tim calmed enough to sleep after panicking so. But this time, Tim didn’t let himself get caught up in the worry of what his lucid mind would think up for him. In Stanley’s arms, he knew he’d be safe--no matter what. He could rest without a care.


End file.
